


Ex cappa: A collection of short stories, prompts, and ficlets

by wise_guys_and_thugs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Other, Soulmate AU: where you only see colour once you meet your soulmate, alien invasion au, hogwarts entrance at the beauxbatons triwizard tournament, the one where Dean Thomas has a massive crush on Professor Lupin, will add tags as i add more stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-02-27 09:12:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13245105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wise_guys_and_thugs/pseuds/wise_guys_and_thugs
Summary: Several shorts inspired by prompts, headcanons, and various other ideas. Usually the prompt will be posted as the title and at the beginning of each chapter for easy browsing. Ongoing work.





	1. The one where Dean has a massive crush on Professor Lupin

**Author's Note:**

> I came across a headcannon on Tumblr where Dean had a massive crush on Professor Lupin, and this story came forth.

“Oh wow,” said Dean to Seamus during the opening feast, “He looks kinda cool, doesn’t he?”

 

“Who?” asked Seamus, clapping politely with the rest of the Hall.

 

Dean guestured airily towards the professor’s table. “The new defense teacher. Lupin,” he said, and then, after a moment, “Even his name sounds cool. Lupin. Professor Lupin.”

 

Seamus rolled his eyes. “Every defense teacher we’ve had so far has been shit,” he said. “Don’t get your hopes up. What’ll it be this year? I’ll bet you—this guy is a closeted vampire.”

 

Dean frowned. “I mean . . . He does have a sort of . . . mysterious aura,” he raised both of his hands up defensively at Seamus’s incredulous look. “It’s a good aura! I heard—I heard he cast a _Patronus charm_ on the train, to scare off the Dementors. And he’s so _young_.”

 

“Okay Dean,” said Seamus in a skeptical tone, though now he was staring at Lupin as well. His speculation was cut short, however, as the air above the table shimmered and platters of food materialized before them. “Oh look, food,” Seamus exclaimed, having completely forgotten about Professor Lupin.

 

Dean, however, maintained the rest of the meal sneaking furtive glances at the teacher’s table.

* * *

 

Lunchtime in the Great Hall after Gryffindor’s first class with Professor Lupin saw a flurry of excitement and talk. The very hands-on class with the Boggart had left most of the students in adrenaline highs, and as a result, laughter and gossip flowed generously around the table.

 

“I was right!” exclaimed Dean happily, “Professor Lupin is a _great_ teacher. Seamus?”

 

“Yeah—that class was something else, eh?” replied Seamus. “I wish all of our teachers taught like that.”

 

Dean seized Seamus by the shoulders and shook him lightly. “The way you took down that banshee, Seamus, that was great! Not to mention Professor Lupin with the boggart. . . he has this really powerful way of casting spells, don’t you agree? Like a wild animal attacking. . .”

 

“I think Dean has a crush,” said Parvati, waggling her eyebrows at him.

 

“Shut up,” said Dean hotly. “No I don’t. I’m just. . . impressed.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Lavender continued, “But—I agree with Dean. Professor Lupin has this rugged look about him, doesn’t he? And those scars all over his face—it makes you wonder how he got them. He’s very alluring.”

 

Dean nodded furiously in agreement. Seamus made a noise of disbelief.

 

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Dean retorted. “You have to agree to some of that, right?”

 

“No, I don’t,” said Seamus, jabbing one finger into Dean’s chest. “Because I’m not attracted to old men!”

 

“ _I do not have a crush on Professor Lupin!_ ” said Dean, very loudly, just as Professor McGonagall was passing by, who seemed to stumble mid-step before continuing her walk towards the back of the Hall.

* * *

 

“Dean,” said Seamus, in an unusually no-nonsense manner, “We need to talk.” he dropped a notebook on the coffee table in front of the armchair that Dean was occupying, and then gave him a very pointed glare. Dean shuffled uneasily in his seat.

 

The Gryffindor common room fireplace roared merrily behind them, and one of the fifth years had set the radio to play a screechy sort of rock song. It hummed in the background as Seamus flicked his eyes at Dean, then at the notebook, then back at Dean. When Dean reluctantly picked up the notebook, Seamus sat down on the vacated area, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees so that he was at face-level with Dean.

 

“This is my defense notebook,” said Dean matter-of-factly. “If you’re going to berate me about using a muggle thing—”

 

“No,” Seamus interrupted, “Open the notebook and look through it.”

 

Dean did exactly that, leafing quickly through a couple month’s worth of “notes”. The first few weeks of September saw neat, cursive writings on redcaps, kappas, and grindylows, occasionally interspersed with doodles in the margins; little drawings of dark creatures, plants, and good-luck runes—but, most prevalently: Professor Lupin. As Dean went deeper into the notebook actual notes started to become less frequent, with pictures of Lupin taking up increasingly more space. By January there barely was writing on the pages, simply a few words on the day’s topic followed by full-page illustrations.

 

Dean snapped the notebook shut with a soft _whump_. “I don’t see a problem,” he said, smiling innocently.

 

 Seamus slapped a hand over his eyes and then dragged it down his face very slowly. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but how is not taking any notes in class and obsessively drawing your professor over and over again _not a problem?_ ”

 

“First of all, this is not an obsession, second of all, I don’t need notes. I remember it all in my head.”

 

Seamus ran his hands through his hair. “You’re hopeless,” he mumbled. “I’ll take notes for you if you can’t, okay Dean?”

 

“You can write?” asked Dean, squinting suspiciously at Seamus.

 

As Seamus lunged forwards to shove Dean in the shoulder, Parvati peeked her head over the armchair, and caught a glance of Dean’s notebook. “This is actually really good,” she said appreciatively, inspecting a black-and-white sketch of Professor Lupin pointing at something on the chalkboard. “You’ve gotten loads better at drawing, Dean.”

 

“Don’t enable him!” Seamus wailed, but it was hopeless, for Dean had already grown a different, more feverish look in his eye.

* * *

 

“. . . Are you okay, Dean?” asked Lavender hesitantly, peering around the tapestry that Dean was hiding behind.

 

“No,” he said miserably. “I am not okay.”

 

“Is it about Professor Lupin resigning?” asked Seamus. Dean nodded, feeling horribly depressed, and slumped down so that he was lying horizontally on the floor with only his head propped up against the wall.

 

Lavender tugged at his arm. “Well—you can cheer up at the end-of-the-year feast. We’ve won the house cup! Come on—up you get. . .”

 

Dean merely looked up at the ceiling and sighed mournfully. “He was the best teacher I’ve ever had. . .” he lamented, “And he was _so cool_. . .”

 

Lavender and Seamus exchanged distressed looks. “You can still write to him, if that’s your thing,” tried Seamus.

 

“I guess. . .”

 

“And we’ll miss you if you don’t come to the last dinner of the year,” said Lavender convincingly.

 

And with another melodramatic sigh, Dean dragged himself to his feet and went with his friends to the Great Hall.

* * *

 

_Dear Professor Lupin,_

 

_My name is Dean Thomas, and I was one of your students this past school year. I’m writing to you to let you know that you were the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher I’ve ever had, and all of my friends agree with me. The year I spent learning under you has seriously changed my perspective on DADA, and as a result I have become much more academically driven. I also would like you to know that you being a werewolf does not change my opinion of you at all! I wish you luck in the future!_

 

_[Pencil sketch of a muggle-style wolf wearing sunglasses.]_

 

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Dean Thomas_

* * *

 

Remus Lupin brushed the end of his quill against his nose, deep in thought. Dean Thomas. . . that was the Gryffindor kid, roommates with Harry, who, for all the time he had spent in class doodling, achieved quite decent grades. Spinning the quill between his fingers one last time, Lupin looked around his newly rented, shabby, one room apartment, dipped the quill in ink, and began writing a response.

 

_Mr. Thomas,_

 

_It is wonderful to hear from a student, and comforting to know that I have left a positive impression. You must know, however, that I posed an extreme danger to the students of Hogwarts during my tenure there. I thank you for looking past prejudices, but remember that werewolves are very dark creatures that should be avoided at all costs._

 

_On a lighter note, you were a delight to teach and I can see a promising career in the defense field for you. If you have any questions pertaining to the subject, feel free to ask me._

 

_Sincerely,_

_Remus Lupin_

* * *

 

Seamus spared a glance up from looking at his and Lavender’s waltzing feet, and caught a glimpse of Dean standing off to the edge of the Hall, looking very alone and very dejected. A couple beats later, Seamus stepped on Lavender’s open-toed heels.

 

“Ouch!” yelped Lavender, glaring at Seamus. “Let’s take a break, alright?” she suggested.

 

Relieved, and slightly offended, but mostly relieved, Seamus walked Lavender back to their table, and then trotted off to where Dean was. “Still no date?”

 

“Nope,” said Dean listlessly. “I asked Parvati, but she said no. I think she was waiting for Harry to ask her.”

 

“Bummer,” said Seamus, nodding towards the pair in question. Harry and Parvati were sat down, and had been sat down for the past thirty minutes, facing away from one another and with their arms crossed. Parvati looked frustrated, and Harry was wearing that perpetually confused expression that he always had on. “It doesn’t look like they’re having any fun, if it helps.”

 

“I’m not angry or anything,” said Dean, bobbing lightly to the music, “Just embarrassed. I mean, who goes to the Yule Ball alone?”

 

Seamus laughed lightly. “Honestly? You could probably ask Parvati to dance right now, and she’d say yes. I mean—look at them.”

 

Dean brightened. “You’re right! Wish me luck,” he said, clapping Seamus on the shoulder as he passed.

* * *

 

“Wait,” said Dean, pushing Ginny’s face away from his with a hand on each of her shoulders, “can you repeat what you just said?”

 

“What?’ said Ginny irritably, purposely leaning back on her chair so that she was as far away from Dean as possible. The other couples at Madam Puddifoot’s shot Dean disapproving glances. “That I have guests often over for dinner at home?”

 

“No, no, before that,” Dean clarified. “You said Professor Lupin came over once?”

 

“Oh, Remus, yeah; he comes over almost every weekend, for dinner,” said Ginny nonchalantly, as Dean mouthed ‘ _Remus?_ ’ in shock. “He always visits for Christmas as well. . . which reminds me, I still need to buy him a gift.”

 

Dean swayed in his chair.

 

“Are you feeling alright?” asked Ginny, looking concerned. Dean waved her off.

 

“Wow,” he said. “What’s he like? I mean, in a non-professional setting—like, how does he act? Does he drink? What’s he like drunk?”

 

Ginny raised her eyebrows, taken aback. “What’s with the sudden interrogation?” asked Ginny. Then she seemed to come to a realization, and tucking in her chin slightly, gave Dean an enigmatic smile. “I think I know what this is about,” she teased, tickling him under the table.

 

Dean swallowed nervously and gave a very high laugh. “Er—whatever Seamus has told you is a big fat lie—”

 

“I heard from Luna who heard from Padma,” interrupted Ginny, “who heard from Parvati, who heard from Lavender,” she paused for dramatic effect, “that you had a thing for Remus during third year.”

 

Dean made a mortified sound in the back of his throat, “Please don’t tell him,” he said, stammering and looking quite flushed, “It was years ago, and I was a really weird kid—it's so embarrassing—please—don’t—tell—him,” he begged.

 

Ginny threw her head back and gave a very loud and very attractive laugh. “Your secret’s safe with me,” she said, giving him an exaggerated wink. “I should invite you over for Christmas . . . wouldn’t that be funny.”

 

Dean chose not to reply to that suggestion. Then, Ginny changed the topic to quidditch, a stream with which he happily followed.

* * *

 

“I feel like we should all get to know each other better,” declared Ted Tonks to the five runaways sat around a campfire, “Seeing as we’ve just met.”

 

One of the goblins threw a log into the fire, “Cresswell, Griphook, and I—we’re already familiar. We’ve been travelling together for the past month,” he said, giving a friendly grin, his very white teeth flashing in the firelight. “Name’s Gornuk, by the way. Goblin against wizarding supremacy.”

 

“Dirk Cresswell,” the man next to Gornuk offered. “I, uh, was the Head of Goblin Liaisons. Before all this blood mess.”

 

The second goblin seemed to reluctantly jerk himself out of his semi-asleep state. “Griphook,” he grunted, and then closed his eyes again.

 

“Friendly,” muttered Ted, under his breath. “I’ll go next. I’m Edward Tonks—but everyone calls me Ted. I work as a television newsreader for channel eight.”

 

“Television—the muggle thing?” interrupted Gornuk, looking fascinated, “But aren’t you a wizard?”

 

Ted smiled a smile that spoke of years answering the same question. “I’ve always wanted to be on the telly, since I was little. It’s much more interesting than a ministry desk job.”

 

“And you?” Cresswell asked, jerking his chin at Dean. “What’s the dirt?”

 

“Er—Dean Thomas,” he stammered. “I’m a Hogwarts student—was a Hogwarts student, that is.”

 

“What year?” asked Ted.

 

“I’m supposed to be in my seventh now,” replied Dean. He had an impromptu thought of Seamus, Parvati, and Lavender, at Hogwarts without him, wondering where he was and if he were alive. To Dean’s horror, a painful lump rose in his throat, and he swallowed thickly.

 

“My son-in-law used to be a teacher at Hogwarts,” said Ted softly, leaning forwards to put a comforting hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I think that was during your time there.”

 

“Really? That’s interesting,” said Dean. “What’s his name?”

 

“Remus Lupin—he taught defense.”

 

“Ah—I remember him. Yes. Third year, DADA,” said Dean, who suddenly felt the urge to blink very rapidly. “Your. . . Your son-in-law, you said?” Dean asked faintly.

 

“Oh, yes! He married my daughter—Nymphadora Tonks, here’s a photograph of the wedding—this summer. Very small and quiet affair,” Ted suddenly beamed, as if remembering something particularly fantastic, “They’re expecting, this spring—my first grandchild!” he gushed.

 

“I’m going to bed,” said Griphook tersely, and left for one of the tents.

 

“That’s cool. . .” said Dean weakly, staring down at the photograph. Tonks was waving enthusiastically at the camera, beaming from one ear to the next, her hair colour changing rapidly from pink to orange and then back again. Lupin wore a reserved but privately joyous expression. Occasionally he would drift his gaze from the camera to Tonks, and his smile would shift into something deeper, something more hushed and mournful. “Congratulations, of course. . .”

 

Cresswell and Gornuk echoed Dean’s sentiments.

 

“Well,” Ted clapped his hands on his thighs. “Let’s end the night on a happy note. Time for bed! I’ll take first watch.”

* * *

 

“Oh my goodness,” gasped Dean, pointing, slack-jawed, at a figure across the Great Hall. “Seamus, look, Seamus—that’s Professor Lupin!”

 

“Well, go say hello,” urged Seamus.

 

Parvati laughed indulgently, and nudged Dean forwards. “Don’t be shy.”

 

Taking a deep breath, Dean strode across the Hall and stuck out a hand, “Professor Lupin! It’s great to see you again!” he exclaimed.

 

Lupin turned around, startled, and took Dean in for several long seconds. In the years that had passed since their last meeting Lupin had gotten slightly frumpier, developed lines around his eyes and mouth, along with a startling streak of grey in his hair. Nonetheless, there was a vigour in his stance that had not existed before, a soft-edged confidence in his movements; peculiarly, the world-weariness that had been staple of his appearance during third year was almost vanished. His overlying ruggedness had yet to abandon him and looked as if it would not for several more decades. Dean, however, was now a good half a head taller than Lupin.

 

“Dean?” said Lupin hesitantly, “I didn’t even recognize you; you’ve grown so much,” he reached out to shake Dean’s outstretched hand, which Dean pumped up and down vigorously.

 

“It’s nice to see you doing well, Professor Lupin,” said Dean, gesturing at Lupin awkwardly.

 

“I believe just Remus is fine now, Dean,” Lupin said kindly. “May I introduce you to—” Lupin reached behind him and pulled a fuschia-haired woman to his side, “My wife, Tonks.”

 

“Wotcher,” said Tonks, lifting up the corners of her mouth slightly.

 

“You’re Tonks!” said Dean, shaking Tonks’s hand just as energetically as he had Lupin’s. “Congratulations on the baby, by the way. I’m sorry, I probably sound creepy—Tonks, I travelled with your father—Ted—for four months, all he would talk about was you and the baby—Oh.”

 

Dean stopped talking when Tonks’s already feeble smile dropped off of her face.

 

“I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—”

 

Tonks’s smile was hurriedly replaced. “Don’t fret. Now’s not the time to grieve, not with a battle looming—I’ll do it afterwards.”

* * *

 

“Seamus, I’m heartbroken,” said Dean unhappily, “Remus got married and had a kid.”

 

“You looked pretty happy for them back there,” said Seamus offhandedly, running up and down the corridor, occasionally sticking his head out a window and searching around. “Damn—Where is she?”

 

“Have you checked the courtyard?” suggested Dean.

 

The two of them sprinted east until they came to a third-floor corridor overlooking the courtyard. “There she is,” said Dean, pointing at a tall and thin figure down below. Professor McGonagall was in the middle of sweeping her arms through the air in a wide fan, wand raised, enchantments on her mouth. At the end of her arc, every single statue and suit of armour in Hogwarts jumped off their plinths in a synchronized _boom_. Dean jumped a foot into the air when the twenty or so harpies lining the ceiling of his and Seamus’s corridor thudded down around them.

 

There was a sudden cessation in speech across Hogwarts as each statue began its slow march towards the front of the school. It sounded as if there were thousands of drummers, all playing the same one-two beat, in every single room in Hogwarts; drummers in the forest, in the dungeons, lined up in military straits in the courtyard, making the air vibrate after each blow, leaving a vacuum between.

 

“You can talk to Remus afterwards, after we’ve won the battle,” said Seamus, unsheathing his wand and holding his free hand, outstretched, towards Dean. “Right now, we’re going to go to McGonagall to get you a wand, and then you’re going to help me blow up the Wooden Bridge.”

 

“Alright,” Dean said, taking Seamus’s hand, “Let’s go.”


	2. Soulmate AU: Where you only see colour once you meet your soulmate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes on the workings of this soulmate AU:  
> \- you are colour blind until you see your soulmate for the first time  
> \- the majority of soulmate pairings are platonic  
> \- soulmates can be siblings, parent/child, and any other familial relationship  
> \- soulmates can be romantic  
> \- someone can have multiple soulmates, but this is very rare

* * *

 

Harry Potter hadn’t always been colour blind.

 

He’d once confided in Aunt Petunia on it, about the strange, opalescent world he used to live in. It had been a place that was so much brighter and messier, where nothing was ever in monochromatic shades of grey.

 

“That’s impossible,” said Aunt Petunia, “You’d don’t just become colour blind like that,” she said, snapping her fingers for emphasis.

 

“Maybe it was the car crash that caused it,” said Harry hopefully.

 

“Whatever in the world do you mean by that?” Aunt Petunia snapped, scrubbing the dishes a bit more vigorously in the sink.

 

“I mean—I can remember the crash, right? And I remember seeing this very bright flash of light,” said Harry, eyeing Aunt Petunia warily. “It wasn’t like anything else I’ve seen before. It was like. . . lightning, and the smell of rain, or mown grass. . . but if those things were a colour.”

 

Aunt Petunia slammed a dish into the drying rack so hard that the entire display rattled. “Don’t be stupid,” she bit out.

 

“Maybe I hit my head and all the colour went out,” Harry suggested mildly.

 

“ _Hit his head and all the colour went out,_ ” said Uncle Vernon mockingly from the living room. “Can you believe this kid—”

 

“ _Shush!_ ” Aunt Petunia hissed, wringing her hands. Uncle Vernon gave a sharp glance to her from over his newspaper, and Harry saw that Aunt Petunia’s hands were trembling.

 

“Sorry, Pet,” said Uncle Vernon softly, “Didn’t mean to bring up the memories.”

 

“I can remember my parents’ faces as well,” interjected Harry, ever oblivious. “My mum’s hair was very shiny. Like apples. And the sunset.”

 

“. . .Red,” said Aunt Petunia, so lowly that Harry almost could not hear, “Your mother’s hair was red. And your eyes are green, Harry. Just like hers.”

* * *

 

“Do you want to meet your soulmate?” Ron asked Hermione one day in the common room. Hermione gave him an funny look.

 

“What do you— _of course_ I want to meet my soulmate!” exclaimed Hermione. “Wouldn’t it be nice to see colour?”

 

“I suppose,” said Ron, “But I’ve lived all my life without it—I reckon I’d do fine without colour.”

 

Hermione spread her fingers apart over the table and spent a few seconds inspecting them. “I grew up not knowing anyone else who was completely colour blind,” she admitted, “Both my parents could see colour; all of my friends could too—it was just me who couldn’t. But then I got my Hogwarts letter and Professor McGonagall came and I learned it was because of my magic—that if I ever met this other perfect witch or wizard—colour would come flooding into my eyes. _Woosh,_ ” she said, fluttering her hands over her face, “And that was just so exciting, you know?”

 

“Okay, you’ve got me excited,” said Ron, “But it’s still not that big a deal.”

 

“Do you know anyone who can see colour?” asked Hermione suddenly.

 

“I—yeah, of course,” Ron stammered, flustered. “My parents for one—they were practically made for each other. Fred and George too—they’re soulmates, you see, they were born seeing colour.”

 

“That’s a bit weird, don’t you think?” said Harry, plopping down into a chair across from Ron and Hermione.

 

“No, not at all!” exclaimed Ron, “Only around—er—a quarter of soulmates end up together, like, _romantically_. . .”

 

“ _Applied Magical Anthropology_ by Apolonia Szabat says ten percent,” said Hermione. “The majority of soulmates—fifty-six percent—are simply very close friends. Next—thirteen percent—are parent-child relationships,” Hermione paused to breathe, “Then are the romantic pairs, followed by siblings at nine percent. . . The remaining twelve percent are too divided up to really matter; cousins, grandparent-grandchild, people with multiple soulmates. . .”

 

“. . .aunts, uncles, step-parents and whatnot,” Ron finished. “Yeah, I know, I know. How do you even memorize all this useless stuff anyways, Hermione?”

 

Hermione flushed angrily, “Well, next time, _Ronald_ , if you don’t want to hear me talk you can just sit somewhere else!” she scowled, got up and collected her books, and left with a huff.

* * *

 

“I heard that Dumbledore can see colour,” said Lavender one night, staring up into the canopy of her bed.

 

“That’s not surprising or anything,” whispered Parvati, “He’s really old, he’s bound to have met his soulmate already.”

 

“No—I mean, like,” Lavender continued, hushed, “He’s _always_ been able to see colour. For as long as anyone’s known him. But he doesn’t have a wife.”

 

“Strange,” muttered Parvati.

 

“It’s not really that strange,” interjected Hermione, who was now awake, “What if he’s got siblings—”

 

“Haven’t you heard the rumour?” Lavender said patronizingly, “He and his brother apparently hate one another.”

 

There was a moment of quiet contemplation.

 

“Do any of the other teachers have soulmates?” asked Hermione, breaking the silence.

 

Lavender thought for a bit, “Not that I know of.”

 

“Professor Snape?”

 

Parvati made a snide sound in the back of her throat. “Snape? Pfft. Of course not.”

 

“McGonagall?”

 

“She’s a widow,” Lavender said quietly.

 

“Oh. . .”

 

“None of the other teachers can see colour,” interrupted Parvati. “Not Hooch, not Sinistra, not Vector. Professor Trelawney used to be able to, but that went away when the Legendary Seer Cassandra died. She was her great-great-grandmother.”

 

There was silence after that, from the end of Parvati’s words until they all fell asleep, each girl wondering in mute horror the grief that would come with losing one’s colours.

* * *

 

“Harry, watch out!” yelled Ron, “It’s him! It’s _Sirius Black_!”

 

At the word _Black_ , Harry whirled around, wand at the ready, just in time to see a disheveled, scraggly man leap out of the shadows of the Shrieking Shack. The rest happened very slowly, almost unnoticeable in the low light, but—with the force of a concussion.

 

A great spill of ink, starting from Black’s eyes, began to slowly stain the world around Harry. The first thing he saw was the brown dirt smudged across Sirius’s cheeks, and then the dusty beige of the wall behind him. Ron’s hair tarnished and bled into a furious, fiery orange—and then the clouds outside became a soul-sucking Neptune. Harry did not react when Lupin’s _Expelliarmus_ spell hit him, instead preferring to stare in astonishment at the iridescent red light, holding up his hands in front of his face to see the crimson after-spell static as it flickered between his fingers.

 

“Oh God, no, no no no—” moaned Harry, clutching his head, “Not you, it can’t be you, oh no, no,  _no!_ ”

 

“Harry, what’s wrong?” asked Lupin hesitantly, but Hermione levelled her wand at him.

 

“You—you traitor!” she shrieked, “I trusted you, you werewolf!”

 

“I can explain, Harry,” that was Sirius, wide-eyed and frightened, “Let me explain, Harry—Remus, stand down—I will tell you _everything_.”

 

So it was, between Scabbers and Peter Pettigrew—Remus and the werewolf—Buckbeak, Patronuses, and the Forbidden Forest—that Harry came to know the truth behind Sirius Black, and, tentatively, accept him for what he now was. For it could be no coincidence, Harry thought, as the Dementors sucked out Sirius’s soul piece-by-piece and the world lost colour in tandem; nothing this monumental could be a glitch, a mistake. And then the brilliant white-blue of the stag leapt through the air—and Harry slumped to the ground, unconscious, and dreamt in colour.

* * *

 

“Wait—are you serious? You asked Cho Chang to the ball?” Seamus exclaimed.

 

“Don’t make a show out of it!” said Harry hastily, “And she said no,” he added, put out.

 

“That’s bad form, though,” Dean said, frowning. “She’s soulmates with Diggory.”

 

Harry goggled. “ _What?!_ I never knew that! Oh, she probably thinks I’m a horrible person now. . .”

 

“Hey, it’s no harm if you didn’t know,” said Seamus around a mouthful of food. With each word, several peas fell out of his mouth and bounced around on the table. “Just apologize to Diggory later, though.”

 

Dean pulled a disdainful face at Seamus’s antics, “You’ve still got no date?” he prompted.

 

“No, I asked Parvati right after,” said Harry, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning back to stare indolently at Cho. She caught his eye, waved once, and turned back to the Ravenclaw table.

 

“Hey,” said Dean, snapping his fingers in front of Harry’s nose, “Don’t be like that. You have one of the prettiest girls in our year going with you; stop staring at Cho.”

 

“Right,” said Harry, shaking his head slightly. “Who are you lot going with?” he asked, hoping to change the subject.

 

Dean suddenly looked very bashful, but Harry didn’t care to notice, as Cho had thrown her head back and let out a laugh that drifted across the Great Hall. He returned to his fervent staring.

* * *

 

“Surprise!” Mrs. Weasley burst out, enveloping Harry in a warm hug. “We thought to come and watch you!”

 

The other champions’ families were crowded about the side chamber, all chattering excitedly in a variety of languages. Fleur Delacour’s sister, Gabrielle, waved cheerily at Harry.

 

“How are you?” greeted Bill, shaking Harry’s hand. “Charlie wanted to come as well, but he couldn’t get the time off—”

 

But Bill’s next words were cut off by a bloodcurdling shriek from Fleur, who was gawking at the side of Bill’s face, her beautiful face a pale white oval hovering above her mother’s shoulder.

 

Bill looked up, alarmed, and turned to face Fleur along with the rest of the room. His hand stilled in Harry’s, grew very cold, and then dropped away. Soon he, too, was gawking.

 

Fleur shrieked again.

 

“What’s the matter, Bill?” Mrs. Weasley asked. “Do you know that girl?”

 

Harry made a small, flapping movement with his hand, for he recognized the look on Fleur’s face; he had seen the exact same expression mirrored by Sirius just a year ago. Mrs. Weasley, seeming to come to a realization, brought both of her hands up to cover her mouth and gasped happily. Tears immediately started gathering in her eyes.

 

Fleur drifted over to Bill as he lurched towards her, and they met in middle somewhere between the two families. “What is your name?” Fleur asked very softly.

 

“William Weasley,” breathed Bill, already cupping the sides of Fleur’s face with both of his hands. “What’s yours?”

 

“Fleur Delacour,” Fleur said, “But you can call me just Fleur.”

 

“Then you can call me Bill,” said Bill, and then laughed a laugh that spoke of joy beyond measure. Fleur joined him, tears streaming from her eyes, and Bill picked her up by the waist and spun her around and around and around.

* * *

 

“Sirius,” exclaimed Harry, running up to hug him tightly. Sirius returned the hug with spirit, and then leaned down to kiss Harry fatherly on the forehead.

 

“Harry, my boy,” he said happily, “You’ve grown so much! You’re what—five ten, five eleven now?”

 

“Six even,” Harry replied. The world around him seemed magnified, more intense—it might have been just him, but the colours always appeared brighter when he was around Sirius.

 

“Just as tall as your father!” Sirius said, and then hooked an arm around Harry’s shoulders, “Welcome to my mother’s house, and the place where I grew up,” he gestured around, leading Harry down the hallway and towards the sitting room, “Enough about me, though—tell me about this Dementor attack,” he said, grinning.

 

“There’s really nothing much to say—I cast a Patronus, then got an expulsion letter. It was all too much trouble for it to be interesting,” Harry said, giving a bitter smile.

 

“I’d do anything for a Dementor attack right now,” admitted Sirius.

 

“Why in the world for—?”

 

“I’ve been stuck in this house for more than a month, Harry,” said Sirius, losing some of the light in his eyes, “Dumbledore’s advice; he reckons that Voldemort is after me now along with the Ministry. Which makes sense,” he added thoughtfully, “But it’s very. . . All this monotony can drive a man mad.”

 

“B-But—” Harry said, outraged, “That’s completely unethical! You’re being imprisoned—nothing to do—”

 

Sirius smiled, “I clean,” he said, “And I’m caught up with the Order’s meetings. Besides, I’m used to this. I can last a couple more months.”

 

“Alright,” said Harry, unconvinced, “I’m here now, though.”

 

“Yes, you are!”

 

“So it’ll be great! I have so much to tell you. . .”

* * *

 

“Who’s your soulmate, Harry?” Cho asked abruptly. “I—I just want to know.”

 

Harry blinked, and took a step back. The mistletoe above them swung slightly in the breeze the movement caused. “I beg your pardon?” he said.

 

“Everyone knows you can see colour, Harry,” explained Cho, giving a hearty sniff, “Even though you try to hide it.”

 

“Oh—er—” stammered Harry. This news came as quite a shock to him; he’d tried his best to hide the fact that he was no longer colour blind, and had, up to that moment, been under the impression that only Ron and Hermione knew. “Er—how—how does everybody know? Since when?”

 

“You were pretty obvious about it, back during the very end of your third year,” Cho said mournfully. “Kept waking up early to watch the sunrise, staring at Ron’s hair. . .”

 

“Oh,” said Harry, scratching the side of his nose, “I hadn’t realized—I thought—”

 

“It’s okay, it’s all old gossip anyways,” said Cho, “But—who is it?”

 

Harry paused, reluctant to answer. After all—Sirius was, in all legal terms, a fugitive of the law. This wasn’t something that he desperately wanted to release, and Harry, frustrated, pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. The wondrous feeling from the previous kiss was draining out of him as though someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over his head.

 

“It’s fine if you don’t want to share,” said Cho, who, at that moment did not look fine at all. “You should know that mines was Cedric.”

 

Harry said nothing, swallowing awkwardly instead.

 

“I knew it the moment when he died. The trees turned grey.”

 

Harry looked up, meeting Cho in the eye. She was crying anew, a spell of exquisite grief across her features.

 

“He. . . He’s one of my dad’s old friends,” he said finally, “He’s like the father I never had.”

 

“That’s nice,” said Cho after a lengthy pause, and it became plain that Harry was not going to reveal any more. “Everyone should have a parent in their lives. I’m glad that you have him.”

 

“Yeah,” Harry said quietly, “I’m glad I do, too. Really glad.”

* * *

 

“No, I don’t think that’s true—Snape’s got a soulmate,” said Harry, interrupting Ron. Sirius squirmed and sat up straighter in his chair.

 

Ron looked shocked, opening and closing his mouth several times wordlessly. “Blimey,” he said finally, “Imagine being Snape’s soulmate.”

 

“I don’t think he’s got one anymore, though. They must’ve died.”

 

“How do you know this, Harry?” asked Hermione

 

“Occlumency classes,” said Harry. “I repelled his attack once. . . and saw a couple of his memories from when he was young, around our age. They were all in colour,” he said, furrowing his brow, “But we all know he’s colour blind now.”

 

“Do you know who it was?” Ron asked.

 

Harry shrugged, and turned to Sirius. “Any guesses?” he tried.

 

Sirius looked down at his feet and then away at some point over Harry’s shoulder. He pulled one knee up and hugged the leg against his chest. “I might have an idea. . .” he started, but then backpedalled when all three of them leaned in eagerly, “But that’s his business. . . I shouldn’t go. . . saying stuff like that.”

 

“Damn!” Ron swore, but he sounded understanding. “That would’ve been some top-tier dirt on the old bat,” he lamented.

 

Mrs. Weasley chose that moment to come tumbling out of the floo, her orange hair tied back messily and with tired, purple bags under her eyes.

 

“Mum!” exclaimed Ron, shooting to his feet, the previous discussion completely forgotten, “How’s dad?”

 

“Oh—I was just at St. Mungo’s, what a coincidence—your father’s fine now—doing great, actually,” Mrs. Weasley gave a tired smile, “They’re saying he’ll be discharged tomorrow! He’ll be able to spend Christmas with us,” she beamed.

 

“That’s great!” Harry and Hermione said at once. Sirius nodded in agreement.

 

Mrs. Weasley’s bottom lip trembled, and she had to sit down on the sofa. “It’s all been so frightening—and it’s all happened so fast,” she said in a rush, “Oh, Harry, our family doesn’t know how to even begin to thank you. . .” Mrs. Weasley trailed off, “. . .There was a moment, for thirty seconds or so, when my colours went out, because Arthur’s heart had stopped on the operating table. . . The healers revived him, God bless, but. . . I thought. . . I thought. . . It felt like years before he came back. . .”

 

“Oh, mum,” Ron said, and moved to sit down next to her. Mrs. Weasley grabbed him and held him very tightly. After a moment, Hermione joined them, holding Mrs. Weasley’s free hand and rubbing soothing circles in it.

 

Harry and Sirius’s eyes met above the group of three on the couch. Both of them, at the moment, shared one identical thought and hope: that the other would never lose his colours, not in all the years that he lived.

* * *

 

Green, Harry thought, was one of the most expressive colours to exist—and one of the most cryptic, as well. His eyes, they were green, but so were Aunt Petunia’s. Slytherin was emerald green, while the Great Lake was a murky, grindylow-infested pine. The forests were viridescent and lovely—the killing curse was technicolour chlorine gas. Green was the smell of ozone before lightning, rain on pavement, freshly mown grass.

 

There was something so unnatural, so grotesque, about watching someone being murdered in front of you. The shock set in much faster than expected; sometimes even before the victim was dead, blanketing you in a repetition of no, it’s not real, he’ll come back. But the colours—they forsake you so fast. Like a wet finger on the wick of a lit candle, the green of the killing curse was gone before the light even had time to fully go out, leaving nothing but a grey, curling arm of curse-smoke in the air. Sirius was dead, and the colours—they had gone back to where they belonged.

* * *

 

For the second time in his life, green was the last colour that Harry Potter saw before the world bled back to black and white.

* * *

 

“Just like your mother, Harry, you are unfailingly kind,” said Dumbledore, his half-moon spectacles glinting in the grey moonlight. “Lily was one of those rare, fortunate individuals who had multiple soulmates. One of them was your father.”

 

“Who was the other?” Harry asked.

 

Dumbledore shook his head sadly, “You are very close to finding out,” he said gently, “Just who that second person was. My only hope is that you are more forgiving than your mother was.”

 

“Will you tell me, or will I have to discover it on my own?”

 

“I will be happy to share,” said Dumbledore jovially, “When the time is right.”

 

Later that night, in that same Astronomy Tower, Albus Dumbledore would be hit with a white killing curse and sent plummeting to the earth. The next morning, high up in the most isolated cell of Nurmengard, a man named Gellert Grindelwald woke to a sunset in shades of grey.

* * *

 

“I’ve done a lot of thinking while I was gone,” said Ron to Hermione, almost in a pleading voice, the broken locket dangling from one hand and the sword of Gryffindor in the other, “And now I know this whole soulmate thing is bullshit.”

 

“Elaborate,” said Hermione tersely, refusing to come any nearer to Ron and preferring to scowl at him from across the snowy clearing.

 

“Well—I don’t care if I never meet my soulmate, and I hope I never will,” he said, “I mean—love is something we build. You craft it and you make it so strong that, even after years of fighting, and occasional hate—it still grows, and fixes, and it stays. What would be the significance of loving someone you’re perfectly compatible with? Your _soulmate?_ ” Ron demanded, breathing heavily. “The two of you have gone through no conflict—no disagreements in morals, or jealousy. . . or. . . whatever. The point I’m making is. . . I got a lot of siblings. Most of the time they’re horrible and insufferable. But—despite that—I’d give my life for any of them, in a heartbeat. I love them all.”

 

Ron stopped suddenly, as if swallowing his next words against his own will. Harry nodded encouragingly.

 

“Right,” continued Ron, “It’s just—a soulmate isn't worth it. It’s a logistical nightmare,” at this, Hermione smiled slightly, “You have so much to lose if they die. But with you—er, and Harry—we can only gain whatever there is to gain. No bloody colours, none of that complicated mess, just—us.”

 

Ron finally finished his speech, and stood there, his mouth set in a determined line, the knuckles of his right hand white against the sword’s handle.

 

Hermione did not uncross her arms, but jerked her chin to the side. “The tent’s over there,” she said, meeting his eyes, “Welcome back.”

* * *

 

“I am about to die,” Harry said, bringing the Silver Snitch up to his lips. The Snitch opened, and a small, octahedral stone rose out of it. Palming it, Harry turned it over once, twice, three times in his hand.

 

His mother’s face was the first thing he saw. Grey, ghostly, and translucent; there she stood, some meters in front of Harry, holding out her hand for him to take. Above him, the sky, previously colourless, turned into a navy blue so dark it was almost black. Harry had never seen anything so bright in his entire life.

 

“Harry,” Lily said, smiling proudly, “Harry.” she repeated.

 

“Does it hurt—? Dying,” asked Harry, looking at the four figures around him. Remus, Sirius, his father, and his mother.

 

“Quicker than falling asleep,” Sirius said.

 

“Will you stay with me?”

 

“Harry,” said Lily, “We never left.”

 

The stone dropped from Harry’s fingers to the forest floor, but the colours did not leave. The night sky remained blue, the trees of the Forbidden Forest remained green, and the dirt beneath Harry’s feet maintained her solitudinous brown. The world was in colour once more, and Harry sucked it in greedily, knowing that it would be the last time for him, for first it was his mother, and then it was Sirius, and then his mother once more; this final, haunting masterpiece. No one would come afterwards. This was a certainty he knew with more faith than he knew of his own death himself, even as Voldemort raised his wand and uttered the two words that he had come to know so well—

 

And, for the third and last time, Harry Potter saw green and nothing more.


	3. Alien Invasion AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt (taken from r/WritingPrompts): Aliens have invaded and are taking over. Their technology, intelligence, and power is unstoppable. They just didn’t plan on one thing: The old gods returning.

* * *

 

Looking back, I wouldn’t have described my second resurrection as waking up from a long sleep, or even a dream. Coming back to life was more of a sudden shift into sobriety, as if going from ten-shots-of-firewhiskey drunk to stone cold sober in the span of a few seconds. First came the immeasurable feeling of absentia: of knowing no past, no emotion except for that of aimless euphoria—a loss of self. Then the memory of dying—twice, sixteen years apart—and the rest of my life.

 

With these memories came my perception of time, something that had been unknown to me in the previous fugue. Time. . . the hard, steady _thump-thump_ in my neck suddenly made much more sense. That was my pulse. I was alive. . . sight crawled back behind my eyes. . . I was alive. . . my fingertips twitched. . . I was alive, and the world buzzed with sound.

 

“Welcome back, Tom.”

 

In front of me, dressed in flamboyantly purple robes, stood a man with which I had intense familiarity with. Half-moon spectacles and long, white hair; an equally long and white beard tucked into his belt. A phoenix cooed softly at his shoulder. Around us, the trinkets of the Hogwarts headmaster’s office whirred and clicked merrily.

 

“I thought you were dead,” I said, pulling myself to my feet and feeling down the front of my robes. No wand. To be expected, of course.

 

“I thought I was, as well.” A over a hundred years old, the headmaster of Hogwarts had changed significantly since the last time I had seen him. His face was less lined, and he looked younger; his nose was no longer crooked. Most surprisingly, he wore a conservative golden stud in each earlobe.

 

“You were. . . brought back, like I was, I presume?” I asked, adjusting the cuffs of my robes, not looking him in the eye.

 

“In a way,” he said, smiling enigmatically.

 

A long, yet strangely comfortable silence followed. I took the time to look around the headmaster’s office. It was obvious that it had changed—the portraits had been rearranged, and unfamiliar faces stared back at me; the knick-knacks lining the shelves were different, smaller, and sleeker. The headmaster said nothing, waiting patiently and smiling serenely all the while. I supposed he was allowing me time to readjust.

 

“Why did you resurrect me?” I said finally, raising my face to look him in the eye. They—his eyes—had gotten darker, something with which I noticed with a strange dismay. The sparkle was gone. “More importantly—how did you resurrect me? I devoted my life to studying death and how to avoid it, and even I haven’t the faintest idea how to revive a man with all of his horcruxes destroyed.”

 

“I daresay I know more about death than you do, Tom.”

 

“In that case,” I said, “I would’ve thought you above such. . . _dark arts_.”

 

“That relates to your question on _why,_ ” he continued, nonplussed, “I’m afraid the time has come where extreme sacrifices in moral are dwarfed by what is urgently necessary.”

 

“Ah,” I nodded, “And what emergency in Wizarding Britain is so great that you’ve resorted to the resurrection of Lord Voldemort?”

 

The entire time, the headmaster had not stopped smiling, but he dropped the smile for his next words. “It’s a worldwide emergency, unfortunately,” he said, looking down at his hands gravely, “So serious that muggles and wizardkind are working together.”

 

“Muggles _and_ Wizards—what of the Statute of Secrecy?”

 

“I forgot you died before that,” he said, waving his hand casually, “The Statue of Secrecy was repealed back in 2019, after the Minister for Magic Granger issued the vanishing of thirty-four thermonuclear missiles fired between two countries.”

 

“ _Nuclear missiles—2019—?_ ” I exclaimed, shocked. My train of thought derailed. “W-what year is it?”

 

A look of immense sympathy crossed his face. “It’s 2092, Tom. I am so very sorry. I can’t imagine the distress.”

 

I took a deep breath. “In the grand scheme of things. . . considering that I’m alive again,” I said, quirking a rare smile, “I’m not as upset as you might think. I’m mainly concerned about the fact that now most, if not all, of my previous following is dead.”

 

“Understandable.”

 

“You’re remarkably well-preserved for your age,” I said.

 

“Medicine has advanced well beyond significantly.”

 

“Of course,” I said. “But tell me—what is this crisis? I’m even more curious now.”

 

The headmaster grew sombre again. “Ah,” he said delicately, “This may sound absurd; crazy, even. But—” he cut himself off, staring at a space somewhere up and off to his right. “What is it the muggles say? Yes, I remember now— _The aliens have invaded._ ”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“Here,” he said, and pointed his wand at a patch of floor, “Let me show you.”

 

A hazy ripple of air emanated from the wand’s tip, something not unlike the quivering mirage above an open flame. From the floor, a foreign, eastern-looking rune appeared, and a stunning block of holographic light was suddenly hovering above it.

 

“If you will, Tom,” said the headmaster.

 

“If I—oh, of course,” I said, and slashed my hand through the air. All of the candles in the office snuffed out at once.

 

“Stunning muggle-wizard collaboration, this one is,” he said jovially, “Quite useful as well; now I can watch those muggle movies without going all the way out to the theatre—but you don’t want to hear me ramble. Onwards with the show!”

 

The vague light above the rune changed into the shape of what looked like a sawed-off tree trunk, bluish-black in colour, with a cloud of fly-like dots buzzing around it. Only when the image started shaking roughly, bouncing up and down, did I realize that it was a recording, presumably made by somebody in a process of running away.

 

“This,” the headmaster said, pointing at the tree trunk, “Is the bottom of a mothership. The enemy army—infantry and air force—come from openings along the trunk. What you are looking at is merely a rectangular video, so this is not the full extent of the ship,” he flicked his wand again, and the image extended, the trunk growing upwards, longer and longer, the video growing smaller, until it was barely a pixel and then gone, and it was just trunk. After a couple of seconds, the rest of the ship came into view: An immense, ovoidal spaceship, hovering motionlessly leagues above the earth, attached to the planet by several dozen dark strings.

 

“This image is old. It’s based off of satellite and telescope imagery—before all the satellites and telescopes were destroyed. We don’t know what it looks like now, not this clearly, but it can’t have changed very much.”

 

“So. . .” I said, gesturing to the image with a jab of my chin, “That thing, that egg-shaped ship, is the enemy home. The. . . aliens all live there.”

 

“I think only their army lives in the ship. The rest are in the home system.”

 

“Right,” I nodded, and narrowed my eyes. “How many trunks are there?”

 

“About fifty,” he answered, and the image changed. The holograph flashed quickly through several other videos, each showing identical trunks in different locations. “The enemy prefers placing military bases in deserts, far from civilization. It has made getting to them quite difficult. As of now, there are twelve in Saharan Africa, nine in the middle-east, five in the Gobi Desert—that’s northern China and Mongolia—four more in Australia, and fifteen scattered throughout the Americas.”

 

“That’s only forty-five.”

 

“Yes, I was just getting to that,” said the headmaster, looking slightly annoyed, “The rest are “civilian” bases—research, field hospitals, the works. They’re all in Canada, in their Arctic Tundra. Very hard to get to unless you’re Russian, but Russia is a. . . wasteland, now. The enemy destroyed all Russian military bases and most civilian centres before they established their Canadian base, and left most areas uninhabitable—due to fallout.”

 

“What about Canada’s own national defense system?” I demanded. “And the United States? I am correct in assuming that they’re still a large militaristic superpower?”

 

“Perhaps it is better for me to show you exactly the level of devastation that has hit the western hemisphere, Tom,” he said, and pointed his wand at the rune again. The image shifted again, this time showing not one, but twenty-some trunks planted firmly in a metropolitan area. The insect-like bugs were now so numerous the entire sky had turned into a translucent grey colour.

 

“This is Austin, Texas. One of the first cities to be destroyed,” on the screen, skyscrapers were collapsing in pillars of dust. There were so many fires that, despite the obstruction of the large cloud of enemy air units, the undersides of the clouds glowed orange and red. “The trunks can be lifted and moved—if you’ll see here—” with a great groan, almost human in sound, a trunk slithered away through the clouds. “You can’t come close to imagining the horror. . . seeing twenty—sometimes as much as fifty—enemy trunks land in your city and start releasing troops. . . you can infer how much of the U.S. went. And when it became clear that the U.S. was fighting a losing battle. . .”

 

“. . .The other countries nuked it? Or the did the U.S. bomb itself? That is the muggle colloquialism, yes?”

 

“You are as sharp as always, Tom.”

 

“I’m guessing the Ministry let it happen this time.”

 

“Quite correct. Although the enemy did lose eleven trunks, the overall effect was insignificant.”

 

I frowned, putting the pieces together in my head. “Russia went down next?” I asked, and when met with a nod, continued, “Then China? Or France—”

 

“Ah. No,” he said, holding up one finger, “The countries had caught on by then. Most of China went under privatized Fidelius Charms, along with India and Pakistan. Japan, Korea, and Taiwan have completely disappeared—nobody knows what happened to them.”

 

“What of Europe?”

 

“Due to the relatively smaller sizes of our countries, most underwent national Fidelius—to keep the military under central control, unlike how it went for China—”

 

Against my will, a sound of horror—or disgust—escaped. “Merlin. National Fidelius?”

 

“Yes,” said the headmaster, bowing his head.

 

“The secret keepers couldn’t have lasted more than a week with such a large area tethered to their souls—” I said, disgusted.

 

“The average is two days before death,” the headmaster whispered, for the first time looking shameful. “The keepers for countries as large as Germany or Ukraine barely last twelve hours. They quite literally burn inside-out due to the weight of the secret. The governments just keep re-casting.”

 

“Great Britain is under one as well?”

 

“That is correct—but we have the philosopher’s stone, which extends our keepers’ averages to roughly a week,” he said. His face was grim and shadowed.

 

“. . .I can’t believe you used to place yourself morally above me,” I said incredulously, feeling the cruel urge to laugh in his face. “You’re disgusting.”

 

“I completely agree with you, Tom,” the headmaster said, “But now you see the level of desperation wizardkind has reached. You’re the most talented wizard the world has produced in several hundred years. Your duelling skills are unparalleled now. We brought you back for you to fight against—”

 

“Why not bring back Grindelwald?”

 

The headmaster paused. “We already have,” he said, and continued, “Gellert Grindelwald was brought back a month ago. He destroyed an entire trunk single-handedly within his first week. After seeing how effective the new ‘resurrection’ program was, it was only logical to continue with it.”

 

“. . .Who else has been brought back?”

 

“Two weeks ago Morgana and Morgause were resurrected together. . . they held the entire country of Germany when her Secret Keeper died unexpectedly—until the German Ministry was able to re-apply to Fidelius.”

 

“Merlin,” I gasped.

 

“He’ll be back too. . . he was scheduled for a week after you,” the headmaster admitted with a slight frown. “We just aren’t quite sure how he’ll react to the Dark Sisters. There might be hostilities.”

 

“So I’m only the fourth,” I muttered. “Strange. I’d have thought you more. . . greedier. Efficient.”

 

The headmaster pursed his lips. “There was an initial. . . mass public revolt against the program. Many considered it, ah, _unethical_.”

 

“But then everyone saw Grindelwald’s Godlike prowess, and—”

 

“That was what prompted the sudden shift in public opinion, yes,” the headmaster interrupted, “People started calling it the “Return of the Old Gods”.”

 

I rubbed my hand delicately against my jaw, taken aback. “I’m considered to be a god now?” I said smugly.

 

The headmaster looked suitably uncomfortable at that statement, something which I noted with great satisfaction. “Yes, I suppose,” he said sadly. “War breeds dubious morals after all. . .”

 

“Morals! Morals!” I exclaimed, a cold anger rising in my stomach, “What morals? You use dark arts to bring me back, and then you condemned hundreds—if not thousands—of wizards and witches to death with your Fidelius. You can’t cite morals anymore, _sir_.”

 

“I can do nothing but apologize, Tom. I am very sorry.”

 

I lunged to attack, but my wand hand drew on air. I’d forgotten I had no wand.

 

“Is this what you’re looking for?” the headmaster asked, raising a familiar wand in his hands. “The elder wand has since been destroyed— _irreversibly_ —but we still have your original one. Yew and phoenix feather.”

 

He held out the wand.

 

I knew better than to walk into a trap. “Say I don’t agree to fight for you. Say I leave and re-start the civil war.”

 

“Where would you have to go?” he asked softly. “The rest of the world is either under Fidelius or destroyed. More importantly, Tom, you are physically unable to do that.”

 

“What—?”

 

“Here, Tom, take your wand,” said the headmaster, and threw it at me. I caught it clumsily. “Kill me,” he demanded.

 

I did exactly so. Or tried to, that is. As soon as the intent crossed my mind, I fell to the ground, petrified.

 

“You are, in some ways, what the muggles call an _Artificial Intelligence,_ ” he said, stepping forwards to look down on me, “You can think and feel emotion on your own—we gleaned that from examining the patterns your souls left on their horcruxes. But you also have pre-written code in your ‘brain’,” he said, rapping the side of his head with his knuckles. “Your body is programmed against insurgency. You’ll find it impossible to undo this _petrificus totalus_ on yourself, even wandlessly, as the jinx will only be recast once the thought crosses your mind.”

 

I knew that already, of course. I’d cast the counter-jinx nine times during the course of his speech. Now I settled for glaring furiously at fawkes, the veins in my neck bulging.

 

The headmaster undid the petrification with a deft shooing motion. I stood up slowly, brushing nonexistent dust from my robes.

 

“Say I don’t agree anyways. Say I refuse to do anything,” I said, so quietly that I was almost whispering. “I’ll be useless in spite.”

 

“Then I’ll kill you,” the headmaster said, smiling a thin smile.

 

I began to laugh, dryly, humorously. When I turned around to meet him in the eye again, his smile was still there, but his eyes were colder, the previous startling blue colour faded and muddy. “I do applaud you for your new efficiency. It seems you have finally changed for the better, Dumbledore.”

 

“Dumbledore?” he said. “I’m not Dumbledore.”

 

Just as I was about to speak again, a woman, equally as old and white-haired as the headmaster, strode into the room without knocking. She gave me a once-over.

 

“Is that him?” she asked.

 

“Yes, dear.”

 

She looked at me again, slowly, from head to toe. “He doesn’t look anything like I remember.”

 

“Well,” said the headmaster offhandedly, “We did model it after his thirty-year-old form.”

 

The witch turned on her heel and started walking out of the office. “I’ll tell Lily to call a press conference,” she said over her shoulder. The door snapped shut behind her.

 

I stared at the headmaster. “If you’re not Dumbledore,” I said slowly, “Then who are you?”

 

“I’m disappointed, Tom,” the headmaster said, “Don’t you recognize me? I’m Harry Potter.”


	4. Hogwarts Entrance if the Triwizard Tournament had happened at Beauxbatons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The Triwizard Tournament takes place at Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. Describe Hogwarts's arrival and entrance into their Great Hall.

* * *

 

_CHOO CHOO!!_

 

An impossibly thunderous screech filled the skies outside Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, disturbing what was otherwise a pleasant afternoon in the Provence countryside.

 

“What in the high heavens was that?” exclaimed Gabrielle Delacour, huddled together in fear with two other first-year girls. The windows of the Beauxbatons chateau shuddered in their frames, and dust fell from the art-lined ceiling. All along the hallway, students and portraits alike were crouched down and clutching their ears.

 

“Get away from the windows, they might break!” A smart sixth-year yelled, frantically ushering the three girls away from the walls. “Shield charms, if you can—” her warning was interrupted as another ear-splitting caterwaul roared through the countryside, shaking the windows and flattening the grass outside. Once again, students dropped to the floor, screaming and covering their heads with their hands.

 

“Do not fear, do not fear,” Madame Maxime was suddenly saying, stepping delicately over the students on the floor to peer out of a window, one hand placed above her eyes. “Yes, yes—that is the Hogwarts delegation. Everybody outside to greet our Scottish friends!”

 

As the students hurriedly rushed outside to stand on the chateau grounds, a third shriek filled the air, and the massive cloudfront above the mountain range parted, revealing the source of the noise: a bright red steam engine, happily chugging through the air. About ten carriages long, and trailing a thick, opaque line of steam from its chimney, the train arced through the sky majestically, circling around the chateau to lose momentum. Now that it was closer, Gabrielle could faintly make out a plaque situated at the very front of the train, in iron and capital letters, reading: HOGWARTS EXPRESS.

 

“They’re terrifying their students!” exclaimed Gabrielle, shocked, as screams and yells could be heard from the open windows of the circling train.

 

“No,” somebody said, pointing one finger at the Express in awe, “They’re having fun.”

 

Indeed they were, as the students of Hogwarts could be seen thrusting their heads and arms out of the train windows, laughing and whooping in joy as the train executed a particularly sharp turn. Gabrielle watched in horror as two red-headed boys climbed atop the roof of the conductor’s carriage and levitated some sort of device down the chimney; immediately the Express began spouting red-and-gold steam.

 

“Here they come,” Madame Maxime warned, as the Hogwarts Express completed its last run-around, its students whistling and waving colourful scarves out the windows. “Back, children.”

 

The Express lined up determinedly against the perfectly maintained grounds in front of the chateau—praying could be heard from several Beauxbatons students—and the train started a bumpy, tumultuous descent, dipping nearer and nearer to the ground with each drop. Finally, with a crash and a frightening groan of industrial equipment, the Express landed, bounced once, and continued to peel down the makeshift runway.

 

The train shrieked again, this time from both the whistle and the brakes, its barrelling run having not slowed down at all.

 

“They aren’t going to stop in time!” A fifth-year yelled, as the Express’s coupling rods blurred to a stop. The wheels of the Express were now no longer moving, the brakes having been fully implemented, and were turning red-hot from the friction against the grass. A blackened trail of burnt grass and smoke was beginning to form behind the Express.

 

With a mighty keen of metal, the wheels pivoted, and the entire train lurched to the side. Now the Express was drifting across the grounds, coming at the chateau diagonally, smoke and fire chasing behind it. The Beauxbatons students screamed and ran back towards the school, but they were too slow; the Express’s first car came to a dragging, reluctant stop, and the rest of the cars drifted forward a few more meters before the entire train came to a halt, resting in a cheeky J-shape, curling around the terrified Beauxbatons students. Behind the curving wall of train cars Gabrielle could make out several moderately-sized fires.

 

Immediately the doors opened and students leapt out, sensibly stamping out the small fires surrounding the red-hot wheels of the train.

 

Madame Maxime, from her high perch above the students, made a small sound in the back of her throat. Starting from the edge of the mountain range and coming to a stop right before the chateau was Beauxbatons’ newest lawn decoration: a charred, smoking, and sparsely ablaze line of blackened grass, nearly a kilometer long.

 

From the very first carriage came out the largest man that Gabrielle had ever seen. Nearly as tall as Madame Maxime, the man was wearing a very large moleskin coat with many pockets, and a conductor’s hat.

 

A tall, thin wizard with long white hair and a beard tucked into his belt jumped out after the man. “Magnificent driving, Hagrid! I couldn’t have done it better myself.”

 

“Aw, thank yeh,” Hagrid chuffed back merrily, “Had a bit o’ trouble stopping the thing, but it parked all righ’!”

 

“Dumbly-dorr,” greeted Madame Maxime, switching flawlessly from French to English, “Welcome to Beauxbatons.”

 

“My dear Maxime,” Dumbledore said, kissing the top of Madame Maxime’s outstretched hand, “I hope you don’t mind the redecorating. I can switch it back it you prefer. . .”

 

“Er—no, no, zat will not be necessary,” she said, “Our groundskeeper will be able to ‘andle eet.”

 

“Excellent,” Dumbledore smiled, and then stepped back to stand beside Madame Maxime. “Let us wait to see what our friends from Durmstrang have in store, then!”

 

Madame Maxime gave a very strained grimace, clasped her hand firmly around her wand, and braced her shoulders. “Yes,” she said, “Let us.”


End file.
